The Other Winchester
by dartigen
Summary: Insomnia and time to kill, plus a very bored Dean Winchester, is not a good equation. And of course, there always was another Winchester...we just never noticed him.
1. Insomnia

**Author's Notes:** I've always wanted to do an Impala-centric fic, and this was originally only an oneshot. The whole part about the Impala getting a mind of its own came up after I heard a story about second-hand jewelry.  
Basically, the story is that jewelry - especially wedding rings - can take on something of the person who wears it, if they wear it long enough. So it's considered bad luck to wear a second-hand wedding or engagement ring, and some really superstitious people (Mum) leave any second-hand jewelry - or jewelry they're getting rid of - buried in a bowl of rock salt overnight. I guess Kripke wasn't the first one to think of salt as a spirit-repellent.  
Anyway, on with the fic!**  
Disclaimer:** Kripke owns everything, I'm only borrowing.**  
Warnings:** Gratuitous swearing and freakishness from the depths of my brain. I think that's all.**  
Dedication:** This story is for Dad, Bruce, Ross, Tyson, and the other guys from the wrecking yard.

* * *

ONE

Hunting is a job. But it's not like other jobs.  
Other jobs, you always have work to do. Some people might say that about hunting too - but there's only so many times you can clean the guns or sharpen the knives, or wash the Impala, or…well, you get the point. It's been three weeks since they've had anything to do, and all that has given Dean time to think.  
Thinking isn't his favorite way to kill time. But it's half-past eleven at night, at Shitty Hotel Number I Lost Count 500 Miles Ago, in Small Boring Town Number Fucked If I Know, and there isn't much else to do. There's nothing much for him to read - Sam's books just bore him, and the local library is closed - and there's no research to do. He's cleaned the collection of guns so many times that he's pretty sure nothing is going to get the stink of cleaning solvent out of his clothes. Sam's asleep with his hand in a bowl of warm water and the camera awaiting use. The knives are all razor sharp. The Impala's clean and in perfect working condition. He's not hungry, or thirsty. There's a noticeable lack of women under thirty in this town, and the only bar closed an hour ago._  
Insomnia sucks_, thought Dean.  
Only one thing to do then: drive.

Out here, on the open highway, he was truly free. There was nothing between him and the horizon. A full moon shone overhead, cold light glossing the puddles on the road - it was raining earlier. Not a car in sight, and it was just Dean and the Impala, alone and moving at ninety miles per hour. For once, Dean didn't put the radio on. All he could hear was the roar of the engine, the hum of the tires, and his own heartbeat._  
This is freedom_, he thought.

To Dean, that's what the Impala's always been. Freedom.  
The freedom to go anywhere, without need for a reason. The freedom of the open road. The life of a traveler, moving on when you get bored, never treading the same path. Dean's sure that if he listed every town the Impala's been to, he'd have nearly every town in America.  
Wisconsin, Arizona, Wyoming, South Dakota, Colorado, North Carolina, Nebraska, Illinois, Kansas, Louisiana, California...the list drags on. Every state, crisscrossed by the Impala's tracks. Every single town telling a story - whether it be one of a hunt, or of an injury, or of daily life with the Winchesters._  
What the hell? I guess I'm drunker than I thought_. Dean pulled over as the glow of dawn began to show in the east. The breeze had turned warm, and Dean quickly rolled the windows down. The growl of the engine died as he sat, in silent contemplation.

The Impala isn't just freedom - it's escape too. It's an escape from the mundane. It provides a distraction, to keep his mind occupied in the dark time when he can't let himself think too much. And when they get caught, the Impala is the bridge to safety.  
Dean couldn't help affectionately patting the dashboard on that thought. _Thanks for bailing my sorry ass out all those times._  
He swore he felt the dash buzz under his fingers. _Wow. I must be pretty drunk then._ Cautiously, he huffed on his sleeve, and then sniffed. All his breath smelt of was dinner – which had been pizza.  
…_okay then, weird._  
He sighed, and turned his head to keep gazing at the slow progression of daylight.

The Impala's more than just freedom - it's safety too. Sometimes, when he lay wounded on the back seat, wadded-up shirts and towels held against him to stem the blood flow, or when he was sick with fever and delirious, he always felt safe – as though someone was always holding him, reassuring him, telling him it would all be okay. The Impala was safety, and the promise of help. It was home too, more than once - the promise of a warm place to sleep, and shelter from the rain and the snow and the cold.  
Freedom, safety and home. Memories upon memories are in this car - of the good times, when they laughed and joked, when he lived for the hunt and the adrenaline rush. Memories of the painful times, when he was hurt and clinging to life. Memories of the fearful times when he was racing against the world to save himself, or another.  
Memories of the darker times, when his world wavered between fear, anger, hate and pain and sorrow.  
He patted the dash again. _Thanks for putting up with me._  
The dash buzzed again, under his fingertips. Dean tried to shake off the uneasy feeling that there was someone else in the car.

The Impala's more than freedom, safety and home. It's part of the hunt - a part that has stayed with him always. In true hunter's tradition, it was passed down. From a dying hunter to John, from John to Dean.  
One day, from Dean to Sam. The day it all ends.  
The dash seemed to buzz again, and he got the odd feeling of a mental punch in the shoulder. _Don't dwell on the negative. You've still got plenty of time._  
Dean's mouth twisted into a smile, but there was no amusement in it. It' was the same empty smile he had when Sam left - in that time when he fought to fill the sudden emptiness in his life. With Dad gone, solo hunting was finally an option, but there's not much you can do alone. He hunted, he drank, he drove, and he seduced every girl he could manage to. He filled his life up with sex and hunting, and for a time that filled the space.Now, even that didn't seem to help enough. There was a wall growing between him and Sam, and nothing he could do would stop it.  
The dash buzzed angrily, and he was pretty sure someone just whispered something to him. _Quit being so depressed. You've got Sammy, that's what counts.  
I wish that was all that counts,_ he thought morosely.  
Gradually, he dozed off, and fell into a dream of being lost in a maze of black metal and chrome, following a whispering voice with an invisible source that he could barely hear above the rumble of an engine.

As he sat there, the sun rose slowly, and cars begin to move along the road. Dean didn't realize that he'd fallen asleep until the phone woke him up with Smoke on the Water.

"Snuh?"_  
"Dean, where are you?! I woke up and you were gone!"_  
"Oh...I, uh, couldn't sleep. I went for a drive."_  
"You'd better get back soon."_  
"Why, is something up?"_  
"No. Besides that you took off in the middle of the night and didn't even leave a note."_  
"Whatever. I'll be a couple of hours."

He ended the call and rubbed his eyes. _Geez, weird night._  
With a sigh of regret, he twisted the key in the ignition, and turned back out onto the road.

--

Sam's heart skipped a beat as soon as he woke up. _Something is wrong._  
He looked across, and Dean's bed was empty. It took him all of ten seconds to realize that he had also knocked a bowl off of the nightstand. It shattered on the floor.  
"Shit! Dean?!"  
No reply._  
No sound from the bathroom - he's not in the shower. It's too early for a breakfast run._ A look out the window confirms that the Impala's gone too. _Oh no...  
Wait, his bag's still here. He wouldn't take off and leave all his stuff behind._  
Sam grabbed his cell phone and rapidly dialed Dean's number. _Pick up Dean..._

When he heard the Impala's engine, the worry was alleviated. He could recognize that sound anywhere.  
A long time ago, that sound heralded Dad's return from a hunt. Sometimes bloody, sometimes bruised, always exhausted but with enough patience left to deal with an over-excited kid. Later, that patience would evaporate, and he'd come home to a pair of moody teenagers who'd bicker relentlessly until he lost it.  
Later still, and that sound would irritate Sam. He'd hear it sometimes, imagined, or he'd hear a car that sounded close, and he'd clench his teeth and ready himself for another attempt to keep his family away. But they never came.  
He knows that Stanford hurt Dean badly. Now, he regrets never saying goodbye, just tearing off halfway across the country and cutting off all communication – he had even destroyed his old cell phone and gotten a new number. But he knows that Dean would've handled it with the same stoic silence. Winchesters just don't talk about their feelings.  
He's pretty sure that he knows what Dean filled the years with - hunting, booze, and women. Not necessarily in that order either. Sam filled those years with study, study, Jess, and more study. Books and knowledge kept him distracted for the most part, and when they couldn't, he had Jess.  
Then Jess died, and there was no way of turning his back on hunting any more. He'd been dying for revenge, and he started to understand how Dad had felt after Mom had died. Now he knows why their father pushed them to hunt. He wanted to have revenge, and if he couldn't then he wanted his sons to have that opportunity._  
Maybe Dad knew,_ he thought, and then shook his head. _No. No way. That's…impossible._  
Nevertheless, the thought nagged him.

Dean looked tired when he entered the hotel room. No matter how often Sam reminded himself that Dean wasn't even thirty yet, when he was tired he looked twice his age. The crow's-feet around his eyes stood out, as did the lines around his mouth. Sam had gotten used to the frown lines between his brother's eyes – Dean had already had frown lines when he was a teenager.  
Any other day, Sam would demand an answer, want to know why he went off driving and didn't even leave a note, but things have changed. Sam respected Dean's privacy - some things are best left unasked and unanswered._  
Anyway, it's not like he'd tell me._  
Dean flopped down on his bed, looking like he was ready to go to sleep. Sam opened his mouth to mention that they were supposed to drive on to Tallahassee today, but as soon as he heard Dean's soft snoring, he realized it was pointless. Waking Dean up when he was exhausted was like trying to turn lead into gold.  
Sam dropped back onto his own bed, and dragged a novel from his bag - Richard Matherson's I Am Legend. _How oddly appropriate_, he thought.


	2. Too Many Mornings

TWO

_Insomnia sucks. Déjà vu sucks too,_ thought Dean as he woke up for the millionth time that day.  
If Sam changed the song on the radio, he woke up. If they hit a pothole, he woke up. If they turned a corner, he woke up. So far, he'd managed about half an hour of actual sleep in a six-hour drive.  
He still had the constant feeling of another person in the car, but the presence wasn't like others. It felt almost…_familiar_. Friendly, even.  
Dean was always sure that it was just delirium from pain and fever, but he swears that more than once he's heard things. One particular occasion stood out in his mind.  
It had been a bad hunt, and Dean had been injured. His wounds had gotten infected, and there had been a mad rush to the hospital. Lying in the front seat, wrapped in a blanket and with his head in Sam's lap, he had sworn that there was someone else. The voice had definitely been male, and was definitely not Sam's – it was far too low for Sam, and too low even for Dad. He can still remember exactly what it had said._  
Hold on, Dean. Hang in there. Not far now – just another ten miles.  
Just another eight miles. Not far now.  
You're gonna be okay. Keep fighting, you gotta hang in there.  
Just another four miles.  
Two more miles. Hold on, Dean. Just hold on.  
We're here, Dean. You're gonna be okay. It's all gonna be okay. You just have to hold on, okay? Can you do that for me? Please? Can you hold on? Can you hang in there?_  
He had held on. He'd fought off the infection, and he'd recovered. Since then, he had always told himself that what he heard was just a fever-induced hallucination.  
He wasn't so sure now. Dean shuddered, and turned up the radio.

--

Sam woke up. Dean's bed was empty again.  
They'd made it to Tallahassee. Dean had turned unusually quiet and jumpy. Sam wasn't sure what had spooked him, but it had to be something serious.  
Sleepily, he trudged downstairs, through motel foyer door, passed the staring clerk, and shuffled out into the parking lot. Dean, dressed only in his grey shirt and sweat pants, had chalked a devil's trap around the Impala and was now rapidly reciting an exorcism over it. Sam frowned.  
It wouldn't be the first time that the Impala had been declared 'possessed'. First, it was just after Dad's first hunt. A poltergeist had decided it would be fun to possess a car. It never really hurt anyone, until it slammed Bobby's hand in the passenger's-side door and broke his wrist. After that, the poltergeist just had to go.  
Then, just after a hunt in Texas, the spirit of a witch thought the Impala the perfect target. The three of them had spent two hours dodging the enraged machine and trying to herd it into a Devil's Trap. Then Dean had fumbled the spray paint can, and they had to repeat the exercise, and then take Dean to the hospital to have his fingers splinted and his skull X-rayed for damage caused by a steel bumper.  
There were a few more times after that, but the one Sam remembered best was when the ghost of a very cautious driver had decided to take over, just after Dean had gotten the car and his driver's license. Dean had been okay with it for a while – despite how it pissed him off that it wouldn't let him drive any more than five miles over the speed limit, and would force him to follow the road rules – but as soon as he had been off of his probationary license, the ghost had been forced out of the car. Sam had been almost apologetic as he'd recited the Latin words – he had really liked that guy, not because he actually followed the road rules but because he had been able to put up with Dean's atrocious driving habits.  
Since Sam had rejoined him, the car had been perfectly normal. The only time it had really been possessed was when Constance had taken over driving, but he didn't count that seeing as it was only for a few seconds at a time.  
Sam shuffled over to his older brother, and sleepily said, "Dean, it's five-thirty in the morning. Isn't it a little early for this?"  
"No," was his brother's tense reply. He could see a muscle twitching in Dean's jaw, and the artery in his neck pulsing. Clearly, Dean was not to be argued with at this time. After all, it _was _the Impala involved. That made it personal.  
Exorcism over, Sam watched with vague amusement as Dean edged towards the car and put one hand on the driver's-side door.  
The engine growled into life, the door unlocked and opened, and the seat automatically adjusted itself. Both men started backing away.  
The door then slammed shut, the engine growl cut out, and the doors locked themselves.  
As they returned to the hotel room, Dean cursing under his breath, Sam said, "People who get up at this hour are nuts."  
He was rewarded with a bruising punch to the ribs.

--

Later, they decided to attempt to drive the car to Bobby's. Dean rang ahead, to see if Bobby had any ideas.  
"_Sounds like the car's possessed again."_  
"I know, I tried an exorcism and it didn't work."  
"_Well…there _is _something else."_  
"If it'll get this…ghost or whatever outta my baby, I'll do it."  
"_Sometimes, things sorta…retain imprints of people. Like second-hand jewelry."_  
"Yeah, I remember hearing something about that. What's it got to do with the Impala?"  
"_How old would you say that car is?"_  
"About forty or so years."  
"_And how many owners do you reckon it's had in that time?"_  
"Three that I know of including us, probably more."  
"_Exactly."_  
"So how do I get rid of the imprint?"  
"_Generally, you have to bury the object in rock salt overnight."_  
"I'm not burying my baby in rock salt! Where would we even get enough to do that?"  
"_You could try salt water."_ Dean swore he could hear amusement in Bobby's voice.  
"Bobby, I can't believe you even _suggested_ that! I'm not burying my baby in salt, and I'm not driving her into the ocean. End of story."  
"_What else do you want me to do, Dean? There is _no other way_ of getting rid of the imprint. It's just how things work."_  
"There has to be another way."  
"_If there is, nobody knows it. I can tow her to my place if you like."_  
"No, I think we'll be fine driving."  
"_Be careful, Dean. We won't know what this is until I can take a good look at it. Nobody's tampered with the car?"_  
"Not that I know of."  
He clearly heard Bobby sigh in exasperation. _"Fine. You run into trouble, call me."_  
"Alright. See you in a few hours."

--

Dean hung up, and sighed, muttering, "Drive _my_ baby into _salt water_, fucked if I'm doing _that_."  
Sam finished lacing up his sneakers and said, "Gotta agree with you on that. The Impala's the only car we have – if we lost her, we'd have to borrow or steal. There's no way we can afford a new car without selling practically everything we own."  
"Mm." Dean threw Sam's duffel bag at him, and headed out to the car with his own slung over a shoulder. They'd already swept up the salt lines and triple-checked the room for anything left behind.  
Next came the exercise of getting into the car. Dean advanced towards the black Chevrolet with the attitude of someone approaching a sleeping demon. The car seemed to look at him sulkily._  
Get over it, Winchester, it's just _a car_. It can't look at you – it doesn't have eyes. _Dean shook his head. _What the hell am I thinking?_  
Tense and ready to run at the slightest hint of danger, he cautiously reached out and put one hand on the trunk.  
It sprang open at a touch. He swallowed hard, and then experimentally rested his wrist on the edge. If the door slammed shut now, it would probably sever his hand.  
Several minutes later, with no improvised amputation, Dean shut the trunk. The back doors opened for him and Sam to put their bags in, then slammed shut and locked as soon as they were done. As soon as Dean tried to unlock the front doors, however, the key refused to turn in the lock.  
He rolled his eyes as the Impala continued to stare at him (in the odd way that it stared without eyes) accusingly. With a frustrated sigh, he said, "Alright. I'm_ sorry._"  
The car continued to stare at him as if saying, _you didn't mean that._  
Fast becoming very pissed off, he growled, "Sam, do something. The car's being even more of a bitch than you."  
Sam shrugged. "I'm not the one who pissed it off at five in the morning, jerk."  
Dean made a frustrated sound and snarled, "Sam, we're not gonna make it to Bobby's unless you _do something._"  
"Well it's not going to take an apology from me. It's _your_ car. _You_ fix its emotional issues," said Sam rather casually. He waited, wondering how long it would take Dean to admit that he was in the wrong. _Stupid stubborn older brother._  
Turning back to the car, Dean silently prayed to whatever deities were listening for patience, and muttered, "Look, I really am sorry I pissed you off. It's just…we're all a little on edge at the moment, and strange things happening to you usually equals demonic possession in my book. I made a mistake. I'm sorry."  
The Impala's demeanor seemed to change as if to say, _apology accepted_. The front doors swung open, and the engine roared into life. The radio began blasting out AC/DC, although the volume dropped a little when Sam rolled his eyes. Dean slid into the driver's seat, smiling. The car didn't even wait for them to put seatbelts on – it began backing out as soon as the doors were closed.  
A few miles down the road, Dean's grin broadened and he held his hands up. "Hey Sam! Look, no hands!"  
Sam sighed and said, "Dean, can you _not_ do that?"  
Dean was still grinning like an idiot. "What, am I scaring you?"  
"No, but what if a cop sees you?"  
His older brother's face fell, then he said, "Shut up, bitch."  
"Jerk."

--

The car didn't seem to be particularly safety-minded. Sam went white when it decided that it would be quite fun to drift around several corners at a ludicrously high speed. Dean just raised an eyebrow and said, "I don't remember teaching her that."  
After that comment, the car seemed to go back to a slight sulk. "Uh, Dean?" said Sam. "I think you offended it."  
"Huh?" Dean didn't understand. _How do you offend a car?_  
"You've been referring to it as 'she' all morning. There's not really any way of telling what a car's gender is. I think you might've offended it by implying that it's female."  
Dean shifted, uncomfortable and feeling just a little stupid for not knowing whether his own car was female or male. "But…cars are always 'she'. That's just how things are."  
Sam shrugged. "Some of the cars have to be male, otherwise how are you supposed to keep the population going?"  
That was the last straw. Dean burst out laughing, and as soon as he could talk without chuckling, he said, "Sam, cars are _made_. On _production lines_. In _factories._ Cars can't have kids. They're not…they don't have the capabilities for that."  
Sam, grinning, said, "I dunno, Dean. If it's your car…"  
Dean's look changed from amusement to disgust. "Sam, that's not even funny."  
"Well, it's obviously inherited _some_ traits from you. I wouldn't be surprised if-"  
"Sam, just don't go there, okay? That's just…sick."

The Impala seemed to still be sulking as they crossed the state line into Georgia. Sam spoke up again.  
"Well, if it sulks when we call it 'she', then I guess we have to just assume that the car is a 'he'."  
"Why would my car be a guy though?"  
Sam shrugged. "I dunno. I mean, technically cars don't have genders, so I guess this one identifies itself as male. I mean, the owners that we know of were all male, so…  
"So it decided that _it_ must be a guy too. Oh wow…this is so…freakin' _awesome_!" Dean whooped as the Impala finally seemed to cheer up. _Back in Black_ blared from the speakers, and neither brother could resist a grin. What could get cooler than a car with a mind of its own?


	3. 20 Questions

THREE

Apparently, many things were cooler than a sentient car. This seemed to apply in particular to the Impala, as Sam had first wondered exactly what Dean had done to the car's engine.  
"I just tweaked it a little, nothing much."_  
Sure Dean, whatever you say,_ Sam thought.  
Now he was wondering whether said 'tweaking' was even legal. The Impala had decided that a hundred and twenty miles per hour was a perfectly acceptable cruising speed, and when they passed several police cars, the Impala seemed to decide that police cars were good fun to play tag with. It took a low blow to bring the car back under something resembling control.  
"If you don't cut this out _right now_, I _will_ drive you into the ocean, so help me God!"  
The engine's roar lowered again to its usual soft growl, but the Impala returned to its sulk. The atmosphere inside made Sam think that they had a moody four-year-old with them. He could almost imagine the car whining, _"But _Iwanna go_ fast!"_  
Something just _made_ him say it. "Dean, you didn't actually mean that?"  
"Mean what?"  
"About driving him into the ocean. You didn't mean that."  
"I did," muttered Dean as they stopped for a red light; the first one in three towns that they had actually stopped for. "I mean, it's cool having a car that thinks, but not if the said car is gonna get me arrested, or killed."  
The atmosphere inside the car became almost oppressive.

From thereon in, the Impala's mood grew no sweeter. Despite heartfelt apologies from both brothers, the engine stalled several times, and always at precisely the right time to piss Dean off. They finally gave up at almost five at night when after one too many yelled threats, the Impala forcibly pulled over and slid into a one-eighty, the doors flying open as it did so. The force of the turn threw both of them out of the car. With Dean and Sam clear, the doors slammed shut again and locked. Cue a snarling match between the Winchester siblings.  
"Smooth, Dean. Real smooth. You pissed him off twice in one day, now we're stuck in the middle of Kentucky, eighteen miles out of town at five in the afternoon!"  
"Well you're the asshat who started it with all your 'you don't really mean that' shit!"  
Sam tried to lean against the car, and the door swung open hard enough to knock him on his ass in the dust. Dean burst out laughing, but a low growl from the Impala's engine silenced him.  
Somehow, Sam could tell it was going to be a damn long walk to Bobby's.

--

Dean silently cursed genetics, his luck, and the entirety of existence for making him the shorter one. Now he was stuck with a moody half-ton of steel, while Sam and his stupid Sasquatch legs went ahead to Bobby's. Dean rested in the shade of a tree nearby, the Impala's paint shimmering like a mirage in the afternoon sun, mocking him with the promise of cool air rushing through the open windows and the bottle of water in the glove box.  
Flipping off the car, he turned his back on it stubbornly.  
The silent tactic worked poorly. By nightfall Dean was thirsty, overheated – despite having taken off shirt, shoes and socks in an attempt to keep cool – and thoroughly pissed off. Bobby had to have called him at least fifteen times in the last six hours, and every time he had tried to open the door to answer the call, the tumblers had refused to fall into place. Then, he'd get a whack from the door. The last one had bloodied his nose and split his eyebrow._  
This is it. _Dean stood up, a tree branch in one hand, the keys in another. As his phone rang for the millionth time, he made a show of struggling with the lock, and then as soon as he heard the door swing he jammed the branch between the door and the frame. Quickly, he snatched the cell from the dashboard, yanked the branch away, and darted back.  
The Impala's threatening growl was enough to make him put the tree between himself and the very-pissed-off machine.

--

"_Dean! Where are you?! I've been calling you all night."_  
"Yeah, I…uh…I think I kinda pissed off the car."  
"…_you mind running that one by me again?"_  
Dean sighed. "I threatened to drive him into the ocean if he kept being such a dick, and then he got all pissy with me and started stalling. Now we're both stuck on the side of the road, about three hours from your place, and I'm locked out of the car. I nearly lost my fingers getting the phone."  
"_Well that explains why you haven't answered any of my calls. Where's Sam?"_  
"Walking to your place."  
"_Christ, Dean, you let him go _alone_?"_  
"Relax, Bobby, he's fine. Anyway, it'll be easier if one of us stays with the car. I'm starting to think this whole 'my car has a brain' thing is getting a little risky."  
"_Whaddya mean?"_  
"It's nothing obvious, he doesn't play chicken with trains or anything, but…I don't think my car knows the meaning of the words 'speed limit'."  
"_That's rich, coming from you."_  
"Yeah, well, at least I have the brains to _slow down around cops_!" Almost the entire sentence was yelled at the car. Its headlights flashed as if to say _well you're the one who modified my engine until I could _outrun_ those cops._  
"_You boys always have a way of getting yourself into the dumbest situations."_  
"This isn't dumb. It was cool until my car turned into _a PMS-ing bitch_!" Again, the last part was yelled at the car. It flashed its headlights again, although Dean didn't bother interpreting the gesture.  
"_Well, Sam can't be too far away – I'll get the truck and start looking around, see if I can find him. See you soon."_  
"Bye." _Click._

--

Sam sighed. It was ridiculously hot. He was sure that if he didn't find some shade soon, he'd melt into a puddle and sizzle on the dirt. He gulped down the last of the water from the bottle he'd bought about sixty miles back, while Dean had tried to sweet-talk the Impala into running smoothly until Bobby's. If Sam was a nastier person, he'd use all of those things that Dean had said to blackmail him to the end of his days.  
Shading his eyes from the setting sun, he thought he was seeing a mirage when a familiar, battered blue Ford pickup appeared on the horizon. He would've cheered, if he had the energy for it.  
Bobby pulled over, and Sam yanked the door of the pickup open, trying to close the door and put his seatbelt on at the same time. He eventually got it right, and Bobby drove off.  
"About forty miles back down the road, that's where I left Dean," said Sam breathlessly before Bobby could ask.  
Sure enough, he spotted the gleam of the Impala as they rounded a turn. There was someone sitting beneath a tree a few yards from the car.

--

Dean looked up as the pickup slid to a halt on the dusty gravel. He got up as Bobby and Sam stepped out. Wiping the sweat, blood and wind-blown dirt from his face, he said, "That car is worse than you, Sammy."  
"Jerk. You pissed it off, I don't blame it."  
"Bitch. Anyway, it's a _him._ The car's a guy, I think," he explained to Bobby. He just gave Dean a quizzical look, and then looked at the Impala.  
To the older man it looked like a perfectly normal car. There were no weird glows, no odd static from his truck's radio, nothing. All he got as he stood near it was the feeling that it was in a sullen mood. There was no way to explain the conclusion – it just _looked_ like it had been having a bad day. "You mind telling me what started this?"  
"We drove past some cops about a county back, and he'd decided to try playing tag with them. I had to threaten him to get the brakes working again."  
"I mean the mind of its own. Did someone try to steal the car? Tamper with it, maybe?"  
"Nothing I know of."  
"When did it start?"  
"Uh, this morning, actually," said Dean, debating over whether to tell Bobby of his suspicions that the Impala had always been like this – it had just waited until now to show it.  
Bobby sighed. He'd had his share of temperamental cars – even the truck had its quirks – but they weren't _human_. They just had little problems with them that were too minor to fix, like a little extra force needed on the clutch, or a tendency to wander to the left. Dean threw the keys to him, and Bobby tried the locks on the Impala's doors.  
For some reason, they seemed to be jammed – the key was turning, but he couldn't hear tumblers falling into place or see the locks popping up. He tried the passenger's-side lock as well, and the trunk, and had no further luck. "Well, I guess it's just in a bad mood," he concluded. "You tried saying 'sorry'?"  
Dean rolled his eyes. "I did. I practically _begged_ him to just cut it out for long enough to get to your place."  
"Well, maybe he's just trying to rile you up a bit. You gotta treat him like a little kid – sometimes you gotta be a little more heavy-handed." Bobby emphasized the last word by thumping one hand against the door. The door flew open, but Bobby was quick enough not to get hit. "See?"  
Sam, who had been silent the whole time, said, "Look, try apologizing again. Say it like you mean it."  
Dean shrugged. "What else am I supposed to say, Sam? You're the one who's good at all this emotional crap, not me."  
Sam's expression simply said, _observe - the act of a heartfelt apology._ Turning his back on the other two, he walked up to the car, stopping just out of range of a door-swipe. Carefully, he edged closer until he could put one hand on the hood. In a low voice oozing with compassion, he said, "Dean really is sorry, and…I'm sorry too. It was kinda my fault. I never should have said what I did, but...well, I did. I'm sorry. Forgive me?"  
The locks popped up, and Sam's door gently opened. Sam gave the hood a gentle pat, and then motioned for Dean to come over.  
Dean paused by the Impala's hood, and then rested a hand on it the same way Sam had and murmured, "I really am sorry, but I meant what I said. I was afraid – things like this might not be that weird to you, but they are to me, and I can't make mistakes too much. I…" Clearing his throat, he continued in a whisper, "I'm still sorry though." Letting his fingertips trail up the hood, he smiled faintly when the engine roared into life for him. The radio broke into a slow rock song as they left in a cloud of dust, Bobby following in the truck.

--

As they approached the last gas station before Bobby's yard, the engine gave an almost hungry whine. Dean took a look at the fuel gauge and saw that the tank was almost empty. He had been able to coax the Impala into running on fumes before, but only for a few miles, and there was still another half-hour until they reached Bobby's. Dean pulled in, and let the car choose the pump. Unsurprisingly, it headed straight for the unleaded, although he had the feeling that it had been looking hungrily at the diesel pump for a while there. While Sam filled the car up, Dean went to get something to drink and a snack for the road.

When he returned, he was surprised to see Sam talking to the car. He seemed to be asking it questions, and it seemed to be answering by flashing the interior light.  
"So gas is like food to you?"  
One very hesitant flash.  
"Not quite then, I guess."  
One flash.  
"This is so hard, um…are there other cars out there like you?"  
One flash.  
"Were you always in the car?"  
One flash.  
"So you've been around since the car was made?"  
Two flashes, hesitantly.  
"How many years, do you know?"  
The speedometer's needle quickly flicked to halfway between 30 and 40, and then fell back to 0.  
"About thirty-five years?"  
A hesitant flash.  
"Um…wow…I had no idea…"  
"Sam! You gonna pay for the gas, or d'you need a little more alone time with your friend?"  
Sam pulled a face at him, patted the door, and then leaned in through the window to grab Dean's wallet.  
Dean, juggling two paper cups of coffee and a bag of peanut M&Ms, managed to get to the car without spilling anything. He put one cup on top of the car, then put the M&Ms on the seat, grabbed the second coffee and got into the car.  
Relaxed in his seat, he softly said, "So Sammy was trying to figure all of this out? Heh, typical geekboy."  
The radio flickered in what seemed to be a mixture of agreement and annoyance.  
"Yeah. I mean, it's hard to tell people things when you just don't know how to put it into words."  
Suddenly realizing what he was doing, Dean put his head against one of his hands, his elbow propped on the steering wheel. "God, I'm talking to a _car_. I mean, don't take it the wrong way, I used to talk to you heaps, but I'm just not used to you being able to talk back. I guess…before I was just hoping that someone might be there listening. I never really expected that there was, all this time."  
He heard that almost-whisper again. _I was always there for you. You needed someone to talk to, and I didn't really understand at the time. It's only in these last few months that I've started to think for myself._  
"Really? It must've been one hell of a learning curve."_  
It was. It was really strange at first – I couldn't understand what you and Sam were talking about. It took me a while, but I started to understand it._  
"How much do you understand?" Somehow, the voice was soothing to him, and he wasn't finding it weird at all that the car had learned English._  
Er…let's see…you hunt evil beings that kill and hurt people on a daily basis. You have ways of destroying them and make sure they won't come back. Almost a year and a half ago, I had a really bad crash, and I knew you were hurt bad too. You went away for a while, but when you came back John wasn't with you. I stayed in the salvage yard until I was better, then we were back on the road, but you were…different. It was strange. You were…I don't know, moody? Angry? Guilty and angry, I think. You felt bad about something all the time. And then, not that long ago, I think something happened to Sam. He wasn't right – I can remember you saying that he died. We went to a crossroads, and there was this strange woman there – she gave me a really bad feeling, and I just wanted to get out of there. You talked to her for a while, and I don't know what you said, but then you kissed her, and I think somehow it made Sam better. And then…you changed again. It was like you were two people, all the time. Whenever you're around Sam, you're the same you've always been, but when it's just us…I can tell that what you did is burning you. You didn't feel bad about it at first, but you're realizing what's going to happen, and it hurts you._  
Dean swallowed back a lump in his throat, not able to bring himself to explain. He jumped slightly as Sam returned to the car, looking at him oddly. "You alright?"  
Yeah," muttered Dean. "I'm fine. Let's go." He passed Sam one of the cups of coffee, as the Impala sped them towards the yard.


	4. My Car Is Alive And Sitting At The Table

FOUR

It was almost nine o'clock at night.  
Bobby felt a little odd about going over the car now. It had been fine when it was just a car. Now, he felt like he was invading its privacy. Feeling like an idiot, he said, "You…erm…you don't mind if I go over a few things?"  
The headlights flashed, and he heard a soft whisper, like wind through leaves. _I have nothing to hide, go right ahead._  
Bobby tensed, one hand drifting towards the shotgun loaded with salt that he kept in the workshop. When nothing happened for several minutes, he carefully opened up the hood of the car.  
Nothing seemed to have been changed, but it was best to look closer. Bobby went over everything he could, looking for sigils, runes, parts that were added or replaced, and anything that looked as though it had been tampered with.  
After two hours hunched over the engine, his neck cramped and his back beginning to ache, Bobby called Dean in to look under the car, and went back into the house for a well-earned beer and some rest.

Dean patted the hood of the car in greeting, and he got a brief flash from the lights in reply. He got to work quickly.  
Bobby had left him with a list of sigils and runes to watch for, as well as a mini-torch and the usual assortment of tools. The Impala had been carefully backed into the middle of a Devil's Trap, and had been washed in holy water that morning. Neither had made any effect on the car, beyond that Dean was sure that holy water shifted the dust that much better.  
Underneath the car, all was well. He found no suspicious markings on anything visible, and nothing had been removed or replaced that he didn't already know about. He went back over the machinery under the hood, and triple-checked the interior of the car, before taking the time out to change the oil, top up the radiator, and replace the rubber on the wipers.  
Scrubbing the black grime from his hands with a rag, Dean cleared some space on the bench and pulled himself up so he was sitting, facing the car. "So you're not a demon, ghost, or some other supernatural thing that's decided to live in my car…what are you?"  
The whisperer gave a frustrated sigh and said, _I _am _the car. I don't know how it works, but…I think the more you think about me and the more memories I have in me, the stronger I get. Because we've been through so much together, you have so many strong memories of me…and I think that's how I got to this. I don't know – it's all very fuzzy, I don't remember things very well._  
"So you're like a…geez, I don't know. But you're like the car's soul, right?"_  
Not quite, but close enough I think. Like I said, I honestly don't know._  
"Wow...this has to be one of the weirdest weeks of my life…"_  
Not really. Remember the LSD witch who gave you hallucinations? That seemed to be quite odd._  
"'LSD witch'?"_  
When you were fifteen, I think. You said you had the oddest hallucinations and thoughts. You thought you could see what Doritos tasted like. You said they tasted blue. It was because some witch had put a curse on you, but it went wrong._  
"Oh, I remember that. Heh, that _was_ a pretty weird week."_  
Well, you said that I smelt brownish purple._  
"…that can't have been me saying that."_  
You're right; it was Sam._  
"Hah. That's something he would have said. Still, this is so strange. Do you know what'll happen if we keep thinking about you and remembering you?"_  
I don't know. I think…I think I might be able to physically manifest, but I don't know. I'm starting to actually feel things now. Sensations, you know? I could always see well, but it's only now that I comprehend what I see. I…I really don't know how to explain it…_  
"I think I know what you mean. It's like the difference between seeing a war movie on TV and actually being _in_ a war, on the battlefield."_  
Yeah._  
"Well, I guess I'll…talk to you later. Sleep well."_  
Hah, sleep? Me? I don't need to. It's _you _who could use some sleep right now._  
"Night."_  
Night._  
Dean left the workshop, yawning. They had talked for what had felt like minutes, but really it had been hours. Stumbling slightly on the stairs, because he was tired as hell and hadn't slept properly for nearly a week, he shuffled into the room he was sharing with Sam and collapsed on the bed, too tired to bother taking off clothes or boots.

--

The next morning, Sam woke up to see Dean sprawled on the bed, completely oblivious. Sam smiled a little. It was the first time he'd seen Dean sleep in weeks – for a while, it had seemed like he was running purely on adrenaline and caffeine. As he watched, Dean mumbled something and rolled over. _He looks so peaceful in his sleep…_  
The lines of Dean's face were completely relaxed, but you could still see the crow's-feet around his eyes and the laughter-lines around his mouth. It was hard to believe that at twenty-eight he was already getting wrinkles. Even the asymmetrical lines between his eyes from frowning were still visible, if relaxed. _He still looks younger when he's asleep._  
Getting up, Sam noticed that someone had been in the room. For one thing, the door had been left ajar – Sam clearly remembered closing it last night, after Dean had woken him up. Secondly, Dean was minus his jeans and boots, and Sam's hoodie was missing from where it had been draped over the end of the bed. Sam clearly recalled that Dean had been fully clothed when he'd shuffled in at one a.m.  
Thirdly, someone had moved his laptop from the desk to his bedside table.  
Pausing only to drag on a pair of sweatpants, Sam rushed downstairs when he heard a slight clatter from the kitchen. Some part of him prayed that Bobby was a light sleeper – he might have caught whoever had broken in already, and it would save Sam a lot of trouble.  
Sam didn't expect to see someone else in the house, which was why he stopped halfway through his sentence and froze when he realized that it wasn't Bobby in the kitchen.  
"Bobby, I think someone broke in las-"  
"Morning, Sam," said the stranger sitting at the table. He looked shorter than Sam, but definitely taller than Dean. He had black hair with an odd metallic sheen to it, and pale skin. His eyes were a strange shade of pale blue-grey that made Sam think of the chrome on the Impala reflecting the sky, for some reason. His voice was unexpectedly low – not raspy, just deep, and much more so than anyone Sam knew. Hair, eyes and skin aside, he could have passed for Dean's brother better than Sam ever could – they were almost identical. The stranger was wearing Dean's jeans, with a good inch of ankle showing, and Sam's hoodie. The boots were discarded under the table. "I had to borrow some of your stuff – your jeans didn't fit me, they're too long. I think Dean's boots are a little small too," he added somewhat ruefully.  
"Who the hell are you?" Sam found himself backing up a little.  
The stranger seemed to muse over the question for a little, then said, "You know what, I'm not all that sure myself. This is…_different, _I think. I'm not sure who I am – I never really had a name." As the stranger turned his head, the sunlight caught his hair with the same shine as the Impala's paintwork, and it all came together in Sam's mind.  
He almost fainted. They'd gone from 'my car is alive and talking to me' to 'my car is alive and _sitting at the table_ and talking to me' in less than 48 hours.  
"Uh, Dean? I think you'd better come see this," he called.


	5. Yet Another Learning Curve

**A/N:** I called the Impala 'Dave' as a tribute to my older brother. I couldn't use 'Andy' because…well, we already have an Andy and he's dead (sadly).  
The maths book stuff (especially the 'not supposed to use a claculator thing') is all relics from Maths lessons this year. I didn't put the problems in because...well...I'm really bad at maths, I don't want to get them wrong, and my textbook is in the disaster zone that is my locker right now.  
Many thanks to the anonymous reviewer who told me of my mistake. I've done that twice now, thanks for pointing it out. I probably wouldn't have noticed it otherwise.

* * *

FIVE

Less than an hour later, both Winchesters were fully dressed, and pacing the living room. The stranger had been tied to a chair in the middle of a Devil's Trap. Bobby was still asleep – after all, it was only five o'clock in the morning, and Bobby wouldn't wake up for anything less than a demonic invasion at this hour.  
"Hey! Are you gonna let me out of here?"  
"Not until we find out what the hell is going on," growled Dean. "And what was with stealing my jeans?"  
The stranger flushed slightly, a hint of pink showing in his cheeks. "Well, Sam's were too long and I kept tripping over, so I thought…coz you're shorter than he is and all…"  
Dean's glare intensified. Realising that he had dug himself into a hole, the guy-that-is-the-Impala shut up._  
Clever thinking,_ thought Sam. He had reclaimed his hoodie, but was making no move to demand the jeans' return – he wasn't sure if the guy-that-is-the-Impala had underwear with him or not. _  
Oh god, he better not have stolen my boxers too…_  
Sam was distracted by a sound like fabric ripping, and he turned to see the stranger get up from where he'd been tied, rubbing a little at reddened wrists and shaking off the shredded remnants of what had once been rope. Dean grabbed the rifle – Sam just gaped in silent amazement.  
"Oh shit..." he murmured, well below Dean's hearing range.

It was late afternoon.  
Dean sat in the garage, with the Impala – whoops, _Dave_ because that was his first owner's name and he didn't really know much about names as far as making up one for himself, and Dean really couldn't think of a name that fitted the guy – as they went over the car. Dave stared in amazement at what had formerly been his body, running almost reverent fingers over the chrome. "Wow…it's kinda hard to believe that this used to be me…"  
"I know the feeling," said Dean softly. It was like when he'd looked at the only yearbook photo he had, and he couldn't believe that the shadow-eyed little stick-figure had once been him. Or even better, at the oldest photo of himself he had – taken when he was seven, and Sammy almost four. It was hard to believe that he had ever had a pot belly, but he had when he was seven – unless that was some other kid in the photo. _Nah, had to have been me_.  
Dave brushed his fingers against the hood again, and then left, his movements eerily quiet. Dean sighed. He was going to have to teach the poor guy a lot, if he was going to pass for normal.

First had come walking. Dave had apparently figured that out on his own, otherwise he never would have gotten from the garage to the house. The problem was that Dave was _too_ good at it. When he moved, he made almost no noise, and while Dean wasn't going to argue that it was bad on a hunt, it was bad when you were trying to drink scalding hot coffee and Dave bumped into the back of your chair.  
"Shit! Sorry Dean – you okay?"  
"Yeh- gnnh," cough, cough, splutter hack, "I'm – I'm fine," he said, a little hoarsely. _Memo to self – let coffee get cold before drinking, from now on._  
Dave had also apparently figured out running, and the general basics of movement. When Dean had Dave and Sam run laps around the yard, Dave easily lapped Sam twice. He didn't seem to get out of breath easily, and Dean was sure that if he hadn't called a stop Dave would've been able to keep running forever. _Well, cars don't have lungs to get out of breath, do they?_  
Dean was also partly sure that he had never heard Dave breathe, but he put it down to another part of Dave's skill at being quiet.

Technology fascinated Dave, and he seemed to get to know it easily. He knew cars incredibly well, often catching Dean and Bobby out, and filling in the blanks for them. Both men were amazed in the week after Dave had arrived, when he managed to get one of the older cars working – said car was in such poor condition that it was about to be sent onto the 'for spare parts only' heap. After test-driving the blue Ford Escort, Bobby simply said, "Well, looks like your days of coming to me for car trouble are over."  
Dave replied, "What can I say? I used to be one of these things – I know how they work."  
Dean suppressed a slight shiver. _This is definitely the weirdest month ever._

Thirdly came reading, writing, and maths – another week later. Dave was good with words, but he sometimes lapsed into silence because he just didn't know how to express his point. Both brothers helped him through it – mostly Sam, but with input from Dean when it came to words that _weren't_ in the dictionary.  
Maths was an equal challenge. Dean helped him with that, because Sam hated maths with a passion.  
"So pi is three point one-four-one-five-nine, right?"  
"Yeah, but you can just stick to three point one-four. Nobody bothers with the 'one-five-nine'."  
"Right. And I'm using that whenever I run into circles?"  
"Mhm. Area, perimeter, surface area, volume. All of those."  
"So area of a circle is pi times radius squared?"  
"You can use pi times diameter too, but radius is just the diameter halved, so it's the same difference."  
"Right. So if I have a circle with a diameter of twelve inches, then the radius is six inches, six squared is thirty-six, times pi is…um…"  
"Something that needs a calculator."  
Sam had some old maths textbooks hanging around in the room. Dave got through them at a snail's pace - it looked like he hated maths just as much as Sam.  
Writing was a strong point – he had neat handwriting, a plain and somewhat utilitarian print. He was admittedly the new master of the double entendre – something Dean wasn't pleased with. What they both noticed was that Dave had a strange sort of accent – not quite as much Texas as Dean, not quite as much California as Sam. What managed to crack both boys up was that he could change accents easily, slipping from upper-class Maine to a Deep South drawl and then a rapid Latino jabber without breaking the flow of sentences. Dean didn't believe it.  
"How the hell do you know _all_ of the accents? I don't remember ever going to Mexico."  
"You didn't – that was, uh, the guy who owned the car before your Dad. The guy before that – Jack – he took me all the way down to Brazil." Smirking, Dave added, "That was a lot of fun. David drove all across Canada, and if he hadn't sold me to Jack I would've gone to Europe."  
Sam raised an eyebrow and said, "I thought it was all kinda fuzzy?"  
Dave got his 'thinking carefully look', and said, "Well…you know how sometimes you remember things, and it's all a lot clearer in hindsight? That's how I figured all of it out. I'm not so sure about the Canada part though – I didn't exactly keep track of where we were going. But hindsight is twenty-twenty."  
Dean shrugged. "Well, I've been to almost every state – except Alaska, I don't remember ever going there."  
Sam added, "And all the islands."  
"They don't count."  
"It's still American soil, Dean."  
"They don't count; they're halfway across the planet. You know what, let's forget that trip to the Grand Canyon – I wanna go somewhere overseas. Like Fiji."  
Sam shrugged. "Fiji sounds good. Or we could go to Europe."  
Dave grinned and said, "Dean, going overseas involves planes, with fuel that goes boom when they crash."  
Dean's slight smile changed to a frown. "Shut up, Dave."  
"Make me."  
Dean flicked a piece of paper at Dave, and it missed and hit Sam.  
"Jerk," muttered Sam automatically.  
"Bitch!" snapped both Dean and Dave.

Lastly came general training, over another six weeks. Dave took to it easily, learning in weeks what had taken both Dean and Sam months. He had already proven his worth in hand-to-hand combat, although Bobby forced all three into an all-for-all sparring bout, with himself as referee.  
"Alright, Dave, enough! Let go of his arm!"  
Dave reluctantly let Dean out of his vice-like grip, but only because Sam had recovered from being thrown and was closing in on Dave's left.  
Dave had a clever way of fighting when faced with both of them. When it was just Sam, he would use Sam's height against him, landing low punches to stomach and groin until he had the opportunity to throw the taller man into the ground. If it was just Dean, Dave could hold his own for what felt like hours, letting Dean's adrenaline run out and then blinding him with punches and kicks. When he fought both of them, he would try to separate them so that he could fight them off one at a time. Dean noticed that he seemed to go easy on Sam – he wasn't sure whether it had anything to do with the whole 'apologies' incident, but he was betting on 'yes'.  
Things, however, went a little too far.  
As Dean lay on the floor, winded and gradually recovering from a hard knee to the stomach, he saw Dave turn and catch Sam across his upper back with an elbow strike intended for his head. Sam let out an involuntary yelp of pain and collapsed to his knees.  
In an instant, both Dave and Dean were at Sam's side, Dean easing Sam onto the floor while Dave hovered in the background and apologized over and over.  
"Christ, Sam, I'm sorry! Are you alright?"  
"Sammy?"  
"Ouch…yeah, I'm fine...just hit the scar is all…" Sam winced as he stood – he was pretty sure that stab wound had done some permanent damage to his spine, because it hurt like a _bitch_ whenever he got hit there. It ached relentlessly in cold weather as well, or if he did too much heavy lifting in one day. All of the muscles would start locking up and going into spasms, and before he knew it Sam would be on the floor, writhing in pain.  
Bobby called out, "That's enough, anyway. If Dave can hold his own against you two, he can manage."  
Dean would have agreed if he wasn't so busy looking for something cold to put on his now-aching knuckles.

Later that night, an agreement was reached – if there was going to be any more sparring, it would have to be done with gloves and socks, at the very least.  
Dean shifted another icepack off of his sore and swollen hands, and shoved it back into the freezer. Extracting the last still-frozen one, he draped it across the knuckles of both hands, and sighed. Bobby had checked, and there was nothing broken, but his knuckles were still sore and swollen. He'd also badly bruised both of his feet, but there was nothing to be done for that. Sam was resting after having soaked in a long, hot shower and Dave was sitting on the bench a few feet away, a textbook open on his lap as he read. Finally, Dean spoke up, uncomfortable with the silence.  
"Dude, are you hiding brass knuckles or something? I swear it's not possible for someone to put that much weight behind a punch."  
Dave shrugged. "I dunno, maybe it is." He shook his head at a problem, frowning. "I don't get it. The textbook says minus thirty, but I got…negative nine-point-three recurring. What the hell?"  
Dean got up and looked at the upside-down textbook, then said, "That's coz you're not supposed to do it with a calculator."  
"Oh." Dave then shut the textbook. "I'm bored anyway. I think I'll go and see what I can find in the way of things to do." He hopped down lightly from the bench, leaving Dean alone in the kitchen.


	6. Chapter 6

*****This story has been discontinued!*****

I'm sorry to have to say this, but it doesn't look like this story is updating anytime soon. I haven't been able to write anything for Supernatural since Season 3, and I don't think I'll be able to get back into it anytime soon. I'll try to update eventually, but don't hold your breath; it could be next week, it could be next year. I'll do what I can, but I can't make any definite promises.


End file.
